


Right Through the Sun

by Vampiric_Charms



Series: Burns Most of All [13]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6750220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms/pseuds/Vampiric_Charms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes words do far too little so soothe away the deepest aches of the soul.  Words, however, are not necessarily all that matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right Through the Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samwisespotatoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwisespotatoes/gifts).



> This was written as a quick gift for **samwisespotatoes** , though I feel I must apologize because it is not nearly as fluffy as I intended it to be! I will write you another to make up for this angsty/semi-fluffy thing. At least the armchair makes a reappearance? 
> 
> As far as timeline, this is set post-Silmaril-theft. Yeah, somewhere in there.
> 
> Also still taking requests, if anyone has some!
> 
> Enjoy!

“Mairon.”

Sauron glanced up from the desk in his quarters and the dense report he was attempting to mark, the name he so rarely heard now breaking through his concentration as it rose just barely above the sound of fire crackling in the hearth. He turned slightly, enough to glance over his shoulder toward the large, plush armchair there - his favorite, used solely for reading or gathering his thoughts after a trying day, only at this moment it was quite filled by Melkor’s slouching body as he stared listlessly into the flames.

No other comment came as his name faded into the silence as though it had not been spoken at all, and Sauron lowered his quill to the parchment. He was unable to see around the high back of the chair to Melkor’s face, only his forearm and gloved hand visible as they draped lazily over the arm. 

“Yes, my lord?” he prompted softly. 

“Might you…” Melkor’s words once again lilted away with the fire and whatever thoughts were pulling him, and Sauron waited patiently for him to continue. “Might you come away from that for a moment?”

Sauron did not respond, instead obediently pushing his chair from the desk and standing, the embroidered hem of his robes swishing gently around his feet as he walked toward the armchair. He passed around to the front slowly, already anticipating a problem to be fixed, some issue about to be sprung forth from his master’s mind for immediate resolution. What he found instead gave him pause, and he put his hand on the back of the chair as he gazed down at Melkor’s drawn face.

The Vala looked up when Sauron stilled at his side, and his stomach clenched at the expression of pain behind Melkor’s eyes, the scars across his brow and cheek glittering against pale skin in the firelight. He could see it so clearly, the _weight_ of the crown held proudly on his head, those gems ensconced in vicious black metal glowing with a sickening pulse. Sauron subtly, wordlessly, tugged at the fire’s heat, filling his spirit with it until the red and orange glow of flame overtook the blistering burn of white.

Some of that pain, excruciatingly miniscule and yet still enough to lighten the burden _just so_ , eased from Melkor's gaze even as he did not notice what had passed to draw it away, too far lost with his misery to care of such things. 

The request went unasked, as it always did, and Sauron gently removed Melkor’s hand from the arm of the chair to ease himself down there in its place, leaning into the expansive upholstered wing and plush back. Sensing deep in his soul there were no boundaries of propriety to cross just then and aching with how desperately this was needed, he reached slowly up to lift the heavy crown from Melkor’s dark hair, feeling the weight passing through him, removing burden and affliction and grief away from a body too heavy to hold them in that fleeting moment. 

He placed it in his master’s lap, not far and still within easy grasp, a show of both delicate submission and equal share of this terrible load, and ran light fingers over Melkor’s forehead to smooth away the careworn lines that had formed there as seconds swirled around them into nothingness.

Melkor leaned into the touch for only a moment before letting himself fold to the side completely until, with the chair’s arm lifting Sauron just high enough, his head came to rest against his lieutenant's chest. Sauron pulled the heat of fire from the hearth in a great swell, wrapping the burning energy of it within himself to bleed outward as he curled one arm around Melkor’s shoulders, the fingers of his other hand twining with the Vala’s own as they clenched tightly into the robes at his thigh. An anchor, a flickering lantern in the raging storm.

“Be at peace,” he murmured so softly his words were nearly lost. 

But Melkor heard. He always heard. And he let out a long, slow breath, turning his face further into the silk at Sauron’s chest as everything fled away into the flame smouldering there. Consumed, _soothed_ , eased into a steady beating of their hearts.

“All is well.”


End file.
